


A Man of Many Parts

by Draycevixen



Series: Collection of POI fic by Draycevixen [53]
Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Consentacles, First Time, M/M, Manhandling, Misunderstandings, Pining, Smut Swap Treat, Tentacles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-30
Updated: 2016-04-30
Packaged: 2018-06-04 07:57:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,081
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6648931
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Draycevixen/pseuds/Draycevixen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for Reeby10 for Smut Swap 2016.  </p><p>  <i>He'd hoped for a short succinct conversation followed by a lot of very expressive fucking but, as usual, nothing had gone to plan.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	A Man of Many Parts

**Author's Note:**

  * For [reeby10](https://archiveofourown.org/users/reeby10/gifts).



He'd first kissed Finch outside Dougan's bar after the Keegan kid died. Finch had paid the bartender to pour John into the passenger seat of his car but before Finch could even strap himself in, he'd leaned across the car and kissed him. Finch had jerked back, looking at him like something he'd just scraped off his shoe and he'd slumped back into his seat, slurring an apology as Finch had driven him home. 

 

He'd kissed Finch the second time on the pretense of hiding his face from the number they'd been following. Finch had tensed up and then relaxed into his arms but he'd done nothing to further the kiss. When he'd let go, Finch had immediately stepped away.

 

The third time, it was Finch who'd kissed him, pushing him back into the wall while doing a great impersonation of an octopus. John couldn't remember the last time he'd been felt up so enthusiastically and it had taken a lot of willpower to capture those busy hands and peel Finch away from him. He'd deeply regretted knowing Finch had been doped, the excessive horniness just a very pleasant side effect, but he had known so he'd had to stop him. He'd tucked Finch into bed and stood guard outside his bedroom door, desperately pretending not to know what was happening inside. 

 

Kissing Finch hadn't gotten him anywhere and while he wanted to believe Finch feeling him up had been a sign of a subconscious attraction, he couldn't rule out that Finch might have tried the same thing with any convenient warm body, given his condition. 

Damn it all to hell, there was nothing for it, he was going to have to man up and talk about his feelings even though he'd much prefer another round with Kohl's needles. He'd hoped for a short succinct conversation followed by a lot of very expressive fucking but, as usual, nothing had gone to plan. 

He'd perched on the edge of Finch's desk. Finch hadn't turned to look at him just asked, "well?"

"I think we'd be good together."

"At what?" Finch kept typing.

"It." This was what he'd been reduced to, sounding like an awkward fifteen year old. "Being together. You and me." He raised one hand to rest it on Finch's back and felt his muscles tense up further under his hand. "I care about you, Harold."

"And I you." Finch resumed typing. "It's been a long time since I've had a friend."

"I want more." He loved Harold despite the extreme odds against it. "I meant more than friends."

"I'm sorry, Mr. Reese, but it's simply not possible." At least Finch had stopped typing. 

"You're not interested in me, in that way." At least he'd tried so no regrets. They didn't have time for any more of those. 

Finch was silent for so long that John wondered if he should just get up and leave. 

"I told you once I'd never lie to you. I am very interested in you, John." Finch turned slowly in his chair to face him. "In that way." 

Finch raised a restraining hand as John started to reach for him, stopping him dead in his tracks. "I didn't think I'd ever fall— but no, John. I'm flattered, more than you will ever know, but the answer is still no."

"Why not?"

"I can't."

Knowing what he knew about John, was Finch really that ashamed of wanting him?

"I know it sounds like a cliché but it really is me and not you, John."

John was surprised he couldn't hear his own eyes rolling in his head at hearing that.

"I have... physical issues."

He was such an idiot not to take Harold's injuries into account but then it was easy to forget when Harold was always so brilliant that they'd just become a minor part of who he was. "Whatever it is, we can work around—"

"Impossible."

 _I love you._ "This isn't about sex." Why were three such simple words so difficult for him to say?

Harold stood up and gathered his things to leave. "You'll find someone else, John, someone better able to meet your needs."

 

To say his behavior got reckless for a while would be an understatement. If he wasn't working a number he was bedding any willing person with a pulse. He knew Finch knew, knew it in the set of his mouth but Finch didn't say anything. It hurt that Finch didn't say anything but then it was petty trying to prove something to someone who didn't want him anyway. And that was a lie. Finch hadn't said he didn't want John, he'd said he couldn't have John. That revelation came at the bottom of his fourth glass of whisky bought for him by the most beautiful man he'd ever met. With the great wisdom that only comes with inebriation he'd thought one last hurrah couldn't hurt and decided he'd turn over a new leaf in the morning. He'd followed Beautiful back to his very expensive and flashy hotel room and gladly accepted when offered another glass of single malt. 

When he'd groggily woke up from whatever dope was in the whisky, naked and tied spread-eagled to the bed, he knew what an idiot he'd been. Beautiful didn't look as good with his face twisted into a cruel smile as he used a very sharp blade to cut a very precise slice across John's chest. John knew the blade was sharp because he didn't feel the pain immediately but when it hit, it was excruciating. Given all the things he'd survived, he was finally going to die in an expensive hotel room at the hands of a sexual sadist. Fate had a strange sense of humor. 

Beautiful was obviously pondering where his second cut would go and John tried not to flinch as Beautiful ran a hand across his exposed flank, the pawing bothering him more than the cut on his chest. 

Then the door to the hotel room flew open. He'd never been happier to see Finch and never been angrier to see he was alone. Beautiful had a solid 20lbs on John and Finch didn't stand a chance. As Beautiful turned, grinning and lunged at Finch with the knife, Finch kept coming, raising his hand to plunge an industrial strength Taser into Beautiful's chest. He dropped like a sack of potatoes, twitching. Finch wrenched the knife out of Beautiful's hand and cut the ropes holding John down. 

"Get dressed."

John got dressed as quickly as possible, using his undershirt as a temporary bandage for his chest and buttoning up his long black coat to cover any obvious blood on his clothes. 

As they turned to leave the room, Finch went back and hit Beautiful with the Taser again, this time holding it against Beautiful's chest long enough to leave a burn. 

"Finch—"

"There are warrants out for him and Fusco will be coming soon to arrest him. I just wanted to make sure he stayed down until then." 

John looked at Finch's face and knew that last part at least was a lie. Finch had just wanted to hurt Beautiful. 

 

Finch got into the car. John wordlessly climbed into the passenger seat and Finch drove him to a rather more non-descript looking hotel a couple of blocks over. 

"Get the first aid kit and the bag out of the backseat, Mr. Reese." Finch handed him a keycard. "Room 1021."

Finch went to park the car and John took the bag and first aid kit into the hotel. As he walked through the hotel he knew it was less "non-descript" and more discreet opulence with well-appointed rooms, tasteful antiques and a staff that acknowledged him in a way that made it clear they were already forgetting his face but then he was holding the keycard in plain view. Inside the elevator, the buttons only went up to 9 but there was a pad underneath them and when he touched the keycard to it the elevator went straight to the 10th floor, opening into the foyer of the penthouse. Sometimes he wondered just how much of Manhattan Finch actually owned. 

He took his coat off and hung it in the hallway before dropping the bag on the bench at the bottom of the bed in the bedroom. He carried the first aid kit to the table in the fully equipped kitchen. The light was good there and the surfaces would be just as easy to clean up as using the bathroom would be. He laid out the contents of the first aid kit and shrugged out of his jacket, then removed his shirt and pants, both blood stained. It wasn't like Finch hadn't seen him in his shorts before and now he'd just seen him tied naked to a bed. 

He was carefully peeling his undershirt off the cut where the blood had begun to crust on it when Finch arrived and went straight to the fridge, retrieving a bottle of water and bringing it over to the table. Without saying a word he pulled antibiotics out of the first aid kit and handed them over with the water. John swallowed them down, glad of the water, while Finch snapped on latex gloves and set about cleaning John's cut and applying antibiotic cream. 

"Thankfully, it's not deep so I don't think it requires stitches." 

John agreed but didn't say anything. The whole situation had the feel of something that could go sideways fast and while he was used to ignoring his instincts and doing something stupid anyway, this wasn't the time or the place. 

Finch applied a few butterfly closures at the deeper end of the cut where Beautiful had inserted the blade and then covered the whole thing with a larger dressing. 

He couldn't meet Finch's eyes. While staring downwards he saw drops of blood on the floor, blood that wasn't his as it was by Finch's foot. He leaned in closer, spotting the darker patch on the front of Finch's black waistcoat. As Finch moved, he saw the material gape. 

"That bastard cut you. I'll kill him." If Beautiful had killed John it would have been nothing more than he deserved for his carelessness but Finch had been injured defending him and that was inexcusable. 

"You'll do nothing of the sort. Fusco will have him custody by now."

John reached again for the first aid kit. "Take your jacket off, Finch."

"Nonsense, I'm more than capable—"

"Take it off or I'll do it for you."

"John—"

He reached forward and slipped Finch's coat off his shoulders.

"I could stop you, John, much more easily than you realize."

Finch was capable of stopping him with a single word but now wasn't the time to remind him of that. He needed to press the advantage, to have the peace of mind of knowing Finch wasn't seriously injured as the few drops of blood reassuringly suggested. 

"But given your current run of self-destructive behavior—"

"This was going to be my last hurrah, Finch."

"—and my conviction that I'm at least inadvertently responsible for it, I will remove my vest and shirt if only to assure you once and for all that this really is all about me and not you, as I told you it was."

Harold stripped off his vest and shirt. Considering his age and general lack of exercise he was in decent shape, just a little thick through the waist, with a nice dusting of chest hair. He knew Finch had scars on his neck, back and probably leg from his injuries but the only thing marring Finch's chest was a slight cut across his side. Luckily Beautiful really had just caught him with the edge of his knife. 

He cleaned the wound and applied a large Band-Aid to cover it. "I don't get it, Finch, you act like I'd be repulsed and there's nothing out of the ordinary here."

"Thank you."

He would have apologized but Finch's tone said he was enjoying John's blunder a little too much given that he was supposedly attempting to woo Finch. 

"And you've certainly revealed nothing to suggest the 'physical issues' you mentioned. You're sure you're not wounded anywhere else?" He slipped his hand to the side of Finch's waist, enjoying the warmth of his skin. The skin pulsed under his hand and warmed further. "Are you feeling all right?"

"What you're feeling is perfectly normal, at least for me."

John could feel the skin undulating under his hand. "Finch?"

Finch turned slowly in the chair to expose his back to John. 

He'd been expecting the scarring at the base of the neck and on the upper back but what he hadn't expected was the series of evenly spaced and slightly raised red circles about an inch in diameter. Given the pattern there should have been one where the scar tissue was at the base of the neck but it was absent. 

"What happened to you, Harold?" The closest thing he'd ever seen to these marks were the scars left by torture. "Are these burn scars?" He reached out, not quite daring to touch them. "Who did this to you?" If the people who'd done this to Finch weren't already dead they soon would be. 

"They're not burns, John." 

Finch reached for his shirt and John pulled it from his hand. "This is why we can't be together? You think I'm bothered by this? I have my own scars and not all on the outside."

Finch sighed heavily in resignation. "Try to stay calm, John." 

He felt something tighten around his wrist and he looked down. Something that looked like a very long jointless finger had wrapped around his wrist. His first instinct was to struggle against it but Finch had warned him so he stayed as still as possible. 

"Harold, can I—"

"If you must."

"I must." He slowly turned his wrist, the appendage twisting with him. He flexed his wrist and felt it tighten further, recognizing just how much strength was in its grip. He leaned closer, seeing it had taken the place of one of the lowest red circles.

"So the rest of these circles?"

Harold straightened in his chair as much as he was able. "I was trying to avoid this but you've left me no choice." Harold's back started rippling in a way John had never seen before and the raised bumps grew and elongated until Harold's back was a mass of what could only be described as tentacles, the ones higher on the back much larger than the ones at the base like the small one that had wrapped itself around his wrist. 

"What the hell?"

"I'd told you to drop it, Mr. Reese." Finch stood up and walked into the penthouse's bedroom. "And now your curiosity has been satisfied, I'll just get a clean shirt and we can be on our way."

John followed hot on his heels, mesmerized by the writhing mass on Harold's back. "Who did this to you?"

"What?" Harold was going through the bag John had left at the bottom of the bed. 

"I worked for the CIA. I know the government has some scary shit—"

Harold flinched and the tentacles pulled themselves in tight against his body. 

"I didn't mean—"

"Of course you did, John. Don't worry about it. It's nothing I haven't heard before I'd just hoped to avoid it this time." Harold pulled a shirt from the bag. "Particularly from you." 

If John hadn't been standing so close he'd have never heard that last part. He placed a gentle hand on Harold's shoulder and turned him to face him. "Tell me. Please."

"There's nothing really to tell. I was born with them, like my father, grandfather and presumably the rest of my male line before me. The tentacles manifest around puberty but luckily are relatively easy to conceal."

He thought about how the tentacle had felt tightening around his wrist. "You weren't kidding, were you, about how easy it would have been to stop me?"

"Somewhat. Despite what comic books might lead you to believe, it's very difficult to walk around the streets of New York fighting crime with your tentacles hanging out." Harold's eyebrows punctuated his comment.

"Custom tailoring?" John moved in closer, slipping his hands to Harold's waist. 

"A tentacle in a bespoke sleeve is still a tentacle."

"And you, Harold Finch, are still you." 

He kissed him and this time Harold kissed back fervently enough he worried just for a moment that Harold had been doped again, before sliding his hands into the writhing mass on Harold's back, feeling the warming tentacles embracing him, tangling around his hands. 

He'd been around the block a few thousand times but this was the first time a kiss really felt like the earth had moved but then his feet were no longer touching the ground. As Harold kissed and licked his way down John's chest, the tentacles raised him up so Harold didn't have to bend at all to get his way. They elongated to wrap around John's wrists and ankles and another one did a very efficient job of pulling John's shorts down around his thighs before ripping them off like they were tissue paper. 

Being manhandled— tentacle-handled, was more of a turn-on than he ever would have thought possible as he'd never liked being tied-up or cuffed, frequent hazards of his trade. He was touch starved by his profession, craving a trusted lover's touch more than sex itself and Harold was touching him everywhere at once. The tentacles wrapped around his wrists and ankles gently pulsed as they grew even warmer while others caressed his back and ass and two played up along the sensitive skin of his inner thighs as Harold's mouth nipped and licked at his chest. It was sensation overload, all conscious thought deserting him, but then his cock was sliding into Harold's mouth and impossibly the sensations ratcheted up further. Harold wasn't just linguistically adept, his mouth a symphony of hot firm suction, his agile tongue curling around the head and pressing softly into the slit. Harold's fingers dug into John's hips and it was another tentacle caressing the length of his cock and feeding him steadily into Harold's mouth. If all that wasn't enough to make him lightheaded the tentacles tilting him head down to make even easier access for Finch would have. And then he felt it, another very small oiled tentacle stroking between his buttocks, caressing and pressing against his rim before slowly penetrating him. As it drew back and advanced again, this time all the way in, it began to grow inside him, vibrating against his prostate. He didn't think it possible but his cock hardened further, leaking pre-come. 

"No!" 

All movement stopped before John was lowered to the bed although the tentacles didn't let go of him. 

"I'm sorry, John, I thought you wanted—"

"You."

Harold looked flushed which was almost as flattering as the tented front of his trousers but the tentacles started to loosen. "They are part of me, John."

"And I love— them but I want your cock in my ass, not one of your tentacles." That was something he'd never expected to say in his life. 

Harold frowned. "It's a perfectly ordinary cock, John. Wouldn't you prefer—" 

"No." That was what had caused the problem between them in the first place, Harold assuming he knew what John would and wouldn't want. "Your cock or this ends here." He felt stupid saying it, even loosely held down to the bed as he still was he had no hope of enforcing it and then the tentacles tightened and started to lift him again as Harold's hands fumbled at undoing his flies.

The tentacle slid into his ass again and he started to object but Harold muttered "prep" and John was verging on smug that he'd managed to turn Harold Finch monosyllabic. He blew right past smug when the tentacles raised him to the level of Harold's now exposed cock which was on the downright large end of "perfectly ordinary." The tentacle withdrew with one last pulse against his prostate and the head of Harold's cock nudged up against him and then in. 

This was what he'd wanted for so long and now he was getting it, Harold standing still, the tentacles doing all the work of lowering him slowly, inch by inch, on to Harold's cock. Once Harold bottomed out, the tentacles wrapped around John's wrists raised him up into Harold's achingly tender kiss that left him feeling more vulnerable and exposed than anything else that had happened between them. He couldn't handle it and broke the kiss. 

"Fuck me, Harold."

He would have sworn it would never be possible but Harold fucked him standing up, the tentacles taking John's full weight, lifting him effortlessly and lowering him again and again onto Harold's cock. Other tentacles massaged his back and thighs, one moving to press pulsing sensations against where they were joined before gently caressing his balls. 

Harold was showboating and John loved every fucking minute of it, trying to delay his orgasm as long as he could to experience even more of it but then a tentacle wrapped tightly around his cock, jerking him off. He came all over Harold's chest, dropping his head to Harold's shoulder as the tentacles continued to raise and lower him, picking up speed, before Harold gasped and pulled him down hard on to him, coming deep inside him, all of his tentacles wrapping tightly around John. 

As Harold softened and started to slip out, the tentacles gently lifted John and lowered him to the bed. Fucked out, incapable of speech, he raised his arms in the universal gesture and Harold kicked off his pants and climbed carefully onto the bed, moving into John's arms, lying across his chest. As he watched, the tentacles slowly retreated, only the red marks showing where they'd been. He ran his hands gently across Harold's back, marveling again. 

 

"There's a change of clothes for you in the bag, if you'd like to use the shower first." Harold maneuvered slowly over on to his back so they were lying side by side. "Don't feel like you have to stay, John, I completely understand."

"Well I don't." He rolled over to hover over Harold. "First you fuck my brains out and now you're throwing me out?"

Harold looked puzzled. "I just assumed you'd want to leave now you know the truth." 

"You can't be serious." Harold wasn't meeting his eyes. "You are. I can see where this might disturb some people but you've had long term relationships before, you should know better than to assume this is a deal breaker." 

Harold kept staring at the ceiling. 

"Harold?"

"Nathan always heavily favored women but his curiosity was such that once he accidentally saw them when we were roommates at MIT he had to— 'experience' them, yes that was the word he chose. Once experienced, he lost any interest in me as anything other than a friend. As for Grace, she preferred to ignore their existence altogether and I never removed my undershirt in her presence."

"And I'm not either one of them. I want it all."

Harold looked pained. "Nathan was curious, Grace was in denial and you're, what, kinking on them?"

"Don't be stupid, Harold. I didn't even know about them before tonight. Sometimes you take someone to bed just because you want them desperately and then you're thrilled to find out they've also got a big dick. Or in your case, a big dick and tentacles. It's a definite bonus but not the selling point."

"The selling point?"

"You, I've wanted you for months. I still wanted you even when you led me to believe you couldn't have sex."

Harold managed a small smile. "That's true, but why?"

 _Because of your intelligence and your kindness. Because you know everything about me and still want me. Because of your ridiculous hair, your fashion sense and your love of books and green tea. Because of your dry wit. Because of the way you purse your lips when I slip Bear an extra treat when you've already done it yourself..._ "I don't have the words, Harold, but with you is where I want to be, for as long as we have left." 

Harold pulled him down into a kiss. "You found all the words you need, John."


End file.
